Philomena started from her reverie of Wyrms, Dragons, and Magic Potions. The shouts of Roy and her brother Andrew disrupted the sleepy afternoon stillness. They were pointing joyfully at pennants flying from the highest ramparts of the grand Temple of Balsall. She felt her nerves all a-jangle. She'd not wished this pilgrimage to end, nor this companionship to disperse.

  Realizing duty, she gave order to her maid who sat upon the chestnut stallion, “Kellith, dismount that the kind knight might ride his steed. We come now unto his quest town.” With a stiffness he had not seen prior, she addressed him, “Sir Halpert, I thank you for aiding my maidservant in her distress.”

  The Scottish knight bowed at her words and silently lifted Kellith from the saddle. As he mounted, Killith and Phyllis came round to Philomena’s side. Phyllis shook her head in dismay and drew a comb to address her lady’s hair. As was its wont, the young lady’s curly hair had long escaped from the loose braids tied that morn. Ignoring the mutterings of her mistress, Phyllis jerked comb through tangles and knots. Kellith brought out netting from her kirtle sack that Philomena’s locks could be scooped within.

  Aghast, Philomena saw the Scotsman watching her ordeal in rapt fascination. Blushing, she asked, “Do not the women of the Highlands have curly hair?”

  Before he might answer, her maidservant Phyllis replied, “They may or may not, but none has such wayward curls as yours.”  Philomena turned to chastise Phyllis’ quick tongue and was rewarded with a hard pull upon her braids. Submissively, Philomena stood victim to their ministrations.

 She could feel the knight’s eyes upon her and was overly glad when her sister Aethel came begging for ribbons. Now she need not worry about the Scot’s glances, for Aethelinda began teasing the knight himself, “A fine knight you, upon your charger surrounded by bay leaves and vervain.”

  With disdainful look, he prodded his horse forward, and left parting shot, “Every knight carries the ‘stock’ of battle with him.” 

 This brought merry laughter from the maidservants who expected little wit from a man who told tales so poorly. Philomena laughed not, she thought the joke poor. Of one thing though she greatly admired... he rode most well. He deftly led his charger amongst the retinue to reach Brother Tobias with nary a misplaced hoof. Now with his quest coming to conclusion, she tried once more to fathom who the Crimson Knight may be and what cross he might carry that could perchance save a town besieged by plague.

  As it was the Patron Saint of Ireland’s Feast Day, there was great shouting amongst the Balsall squires and townsmen at the return of their Irish knight. It was considered good omen his return. This was a great and good thing, for now Philomena could enjoy their slow entry into the small village without worry of notice. Eagerly, she drank in the sights of the Temple grounds.

   Soaring above them, the Church of Balsall stood proud and tall, stone that would withstand many a battle. It was one of the bastions of the Knights Templar and by that reasoning built more for war than prayer. Barracks of wood, home to many a brave knight, buttressed the nave. Preferred over steeple, campanile, and belfry, this holy place displayed ramparts and parapets. Indeed, it was a fearsome place.

  The chapter house, also well-fortified, stood across the ground. Between the two buildings lay the wide arena of well-packed dirt where knights trained in the list. The tournament would take place here. Already, wooden benches, newly painted, lined the arena. Brightly colored flags hung from poles set earlier that day. Philomena was proud to see the flag of Warborough colors. Her family’s tithe earned them that honor.

  Within the arena, two score knights practiced with wooden swords and light mail. The noise they made was so great that even the shouts of the squires at Sir Ryan’s return were as mosquitoes buzzing. The knights wore bright cloaks to distinguish themselves for many wore the Red Cross of their Order upon their chests. A gaggle of women cheered upon the chapter house steps wearing gowns in colors unimaginable. Philomena wondered whence such vivid dyes might come and, secretly, if she might buy a jar cheaply.

  Beyond the chapter house, she spied the small market village, supplier to the Temple. There all was a-bustle and even from this distance, the throngs of people preparing for the celebration of St. Joseph were visible. It was to there that the ladies would hither with the blacksmith.

   The men, meanwhile, would to the Priory. This small building, an afterthought tacked upon the apse of the Church, was ill-placed. Too near the stables; putrid smells filled it in the dog days while festering fogs seeped in when the wind laid low. The doors and windows were oft kept closed though it did little good. 'Twas a dank, cheerless place. The Clergy who administered here soon moved chambers to the barracks and left the building for visiting clergy… and for conducting business that the chapter house was too public a place for.

  Out paraded the Sergeant’s squire to blow his horn. The fighting within the arena came to an end. Thereupon, the knights did spy the crowd about their erstwhile companion, Ryan, son of Howard. With shouts and good-natured ribbing, they sped across the grass to meet him. Philomena admired them and looked to see if any were a challenge to James…. and her betrothed, she remembered in afterthought.

  Many a knight could be seen and there was much disarray. It took Philomena some time to discern the wheat from the chaff. But wheat enough there was and she was worried for her betrothed… and for James. Three days of tournament lay before them and she hoped that no harm would come to those in her care.

  With that in mind, she turned to her sister, who was gaping wide at all the brawn and steel about her. Smiling, Philomena began to issue orders in clear voice, reminding each of their duties. “Daughter of Lord Beasely, Aethelinda! Anne, Kellith… remove our hard-won prizes from the good Scottish knight’s steed. Sir James of Aberfoyle, we thank you for the use of your mount. Phyllis, get you the cooking pot from your husband.”

  Ignoring the knights who had begun to tease and taunt the comely women, she turned to the men in her retinue, “Bratton! Comb down the good Cleric’s horse that he might show himself well before his peers! Bob! Kenric! Remove from Brother Tobias’ saddlebags the iron and tools of the forge that we might set up the smithy. Stanley! Andrew! Escort the Sir Howard of Kilkinney to the Prior to claim reward. All meet at Warborough booth for the even meal.”

  Philomena gave no orders to Roy for she knew he would ne’er follow them. He was that stubborn. Already he was in war of words with a dubious knight, all pustules and dirt, laying odds on the morrow’s tournaments. Roy was a self-acclaimed swordsman and he was glad to hear that the next day’s events included broad sword, the two-handed, and all forms of archery.

  As the women and Kenric moved towards the village, Philomena looked back to see James, no longer James, now a stranger. Now a Foreign Knight. His eyes were focused on the list field where the Knights Templar had returned to swordplay. He was watching with stern face the competition that he would soon challenge. She shivered when she realized his face had grown pale.

   Her worry for a man who should mean nothing to her disturbed her greatly. With renewed vigour, she began to issue orders in her mother’s stern voice. “Kenric, as soon as Stanley has seen the Prior, I will send him to get wood for our forge. In the meantime, set up your tools and call out your services that we might have orders ready once fire is stoked.” Kenric nodded lazily. He had hoped to nap until wood was made available.

  Philomena looked at him suspiciously. She was glad that the Warborough booth, reward for their many years liegance to the Church, was near the small furnace that the blacksmiths shared. She would keep Bob upon his tasking. She decided also that Bob would handle the coin. Kenric was too fond of betting and the games of chance that surrounded a tournament.

  “Phyllis. Please you to start our cook fire behind the booth. No, I bethink myself. Until wood is brought, will you walk the market street describing our wares and seeking custom?” Already they approached the market street and Philomena was pleased to see no other herbal stall.

  Phyllis was jolly, she loved gossiping amongst the other venders, and this would be a fine time for such, “As you wish, my lady. What have we?” 

 “Vervain compresses and poultices, the tincture of dock from Mother, mint tea, sweet bay oil,” Philomena counted off on her fingers as they approached Warborough booth. It was a sturdy little wooden structure with a closed roof and three open counters. It was perfect for a warm day in March that might soon see rain.

  “We could make tussie mussies for selling!” Aethelinda grabbed Philomena’s hand excitedly.

   Kellith clapped her hands in delight, “Oh yes! May we please, my lady?”

  Philomena sighed. She knew what knights would be receiving their herbal bouquets from her sister and maidservant when the horn blew next day. “Very well, but only after we’ve prepared that which will heal the wounded.” 

  The two young girls nodded happily and began discussing which herbs to use to communicate their hopes and sentiments. They both agreed that early spring tussie mussies were not as pretty as May poseys.

  Philomena continued giving direction to Phyllis as the men found space for themselves beside the neighboring stall’s furnace. “We can make comfrey poultice for cuts, horehound decoction, if need be… We have precious little hyssop and mustard, they will be in demand.”

  “There are still the dandelions and nettles,” Phyllis reminded her mistress. They had more dandelion weeds and nettles than all the other herbs put together.   Philomena shook her head, “We mustn’t barter those unless all others run low. Dandelion soup for supper and nettle soup the morrow…”  

   Phyllis nodded sadly. She had hoped with the silver they received for the Rogue Irishman’s rescue that they would buy sausage and bread.

  “When the wood arrives, I will start the soup, my lady .”  With a kindly hug to her mistress, Phyllis entered the bustling crowd.

   Philomena turned to see her hard-working Anne wiping down the counters while Aethel and Kellith gleefully sorted herbs for their nosegays. Sighing, Pam gave each a task so that their only mortar and pestle could be passed easily from girl to girl without argument.  

  The work went lightly for many stopped to hear the singing of the Wren. There were not many fair maidens in the village that day and none with so fine a voice, so they were drawn like bees to honey. 

By a bank as I lay
Myself alone did muse,
Hey ho!
A bird's sweet voice did me rejoice
She sang before the day.
Methought full well I wot her lay,
She said,
The Winter's past,
Hey ho!
Down, derry down,
Down derry, down derry,
Down, derry down, derry down,
Derry down, down! 

Master of Spring's sweet music,
The lusty nightingale,
Hey ho!
Full merrily and secretly
She singeth in the thicke;
Within her breast a thorn doth prick
To keep her off from sleep,
Hey ho!
Down, derry down,
Down derry, down derry,
Down, derry down, derry down,
Derry down, down!   

  Philomena was in high spirits. Her sister had sung her name song which always made her cheerful, but better news was the promise of coin coming . Many squires had placed orders for their knights. Vervain compresses would help to lessen the swelling of bruises from the day’s training. A most pleasing sound she heard, over the din of the blacksmiths, was that of orders being placed for weapon mending. If all went well, they would return with a full pouch of coin to her father's table.

  In the slow turning of the sun, tis hard to imagine that Philomena’s life was in deadly peril. If she had but known her betrothed did challenge a visiting German knight to swordplay, a Teuton renowned for his knowledge of tactics and strategems upon the battlefield, most like she would have gone to the Chaplain of the Order and begged refuge. But she knew not that the illustrious Baron Ditwinus Schroder had come to Balsall, nor that he had accepted Roy of Nuneaton’s foolish offer. More pity her.